


Lucidity Flows Like Water, Like A Dagger In The Dark

by Rosechyld



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Dalish mage Lavellan cameo, M/M, Other, Rogue Lavellan - Freeform, former spirits becoming real boys, later on down the road
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-18
Updated: 2021-03-20
Packaged: 2021-03-27 12:47:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,989
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30122985
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rosechyld/pseuds/Rosechyld
Summary: "You're too bright, like counting birds against the sun. The mark makes you more. But past it... pulled, blood that is not blood, a tiny trace of time. Lucidity, struggling to swim to the clarity it aught to bring. Clouded, it makes you burn. Burn like arrows made of fire, turning foe to ash. A figure that flows like water, like a dagger in the dark.And past that? The weight of all on you. All the hopes you carry, fears you fight. You are theirs. It must be very hard, I hope I help."
Relationships: Bull/Dorian (mention), Male Inquisitor/Dorian Pavus, Male Lavellan/Dorian Pavus, Sera/Dagna (mention)
Kudos: 1





	1. Like One Drink To Many

Lucidity. An absurd name by anyone’s standards. More in line with young Soporati families trying to will a mage child into existence in an attempt to raise their family status then anything out of a Dalish Clan. Admittedly he hadn’t met any Dalish before, so he could be very wrong, but it wasn’t very likely.

He wasn’t wrong very often.

He’d only met the Inquisitor a scant handful of times since falling into his arms outside Haven during the attack, well toned arms that they were, but it occurred to him each time the sheer scarcity of the use of the poor man's name. You’re Grace, Harald, My Lord, Inquisitor Sir. All titles, no personal connections.

He’d also noticed the cold, stern look those golden eyes of his would take on when someone addressed him as such. Pretty golden eyes, yes, set just so into a warm tanned face and framed with chocolate colored hair so rich and soft they made the hands itch just looking at it. Nevermind the thoughts of whether those tattoos extended below the neckline...

Wonderful thoughts aside, it was quite impressive and incredibly sad to see the young lad, strapping as he might be, being held at arm's length by everyone around him. If you weren’t born into it, and sometimes even if you were, it was often a lot to take, the anonymity of position.

So he had been pleasantly surprised when he had walked into the tavern for his nightly nip to see the lofty Herald of Andraste sitting at a table with the Chargers, three sheets to the wind and losing at cards. That had been well over an hour ago, and now the pillar of Andrastian faith everyone weighed so heavily upon was more akin to melting chocolate, draped precariously over the shoulder of who could only be assumed to be another Dalish. Mage, from the look of the stave leaning against the wall behind her. 

Beside him, Bull’s laugh bellowed loudly enough to startle him right out of his cups and nearly caused him to drop his cards. Somewhere along that last hour he’d managed to join the game, and couldn’t quite remember anymore if he’d asked or if he’d been invited. It didn’t matter, he himself was two cups to many into whatever awful swill they were serving up.

He focused upon the hand in his... hands, or attempted to and failed miserably as the warm chocolatey voice of the warm chocolatey Inquisitor proved to be quite the distraction.

“...was nothing more than a rabbit! Poor sod had to trek back to camp in soaking wet leathers. Master Zoriah was furious! Gave our hunters and our Hahren some new stories though. Poor Jase’are, but he learned where a keeper's apprentice belongs.” 

The Mage spoke, an overtly astonished look upon her face as she twisted in the direction of The Inquisitor, “Wait, your First was trying to go out with the hunters?”

The Herald nodded, “Aye, fool got it in his head from one of the elders that a Keeper should know how to do all things and be all things for the clan at all times. Ridiculous. Keepers are.. Well you know, but…” He frowned a bit, as if there were a language barrier for him.

The man scooped up his mug and cradled it with both hands, a lifeline in a sea of storms was the imagery conjured. After a moment, he spoke again, “Our Keepers are a bit like how Bull described his Tamasrans.. Or how you humans see your Chantry Mothers I suppose. Spiritual leaders, guides. Keepers of magic and the old stories.”

Krem, bless his good Tevinter heart, spoke up, “But Dalish said your… Har Har Rens were your lore keepers right?”

Both Dalish, which was apparently also the young lady’s name, and the Inquisitor snorted into their cups. After a good solid moment of the two of them giggle-choking on their ales, the Inquisitor spoke up.

“Our Hahren, yes. Sort of it’s not really the same thing? Hahren _are_ storytellers and lore keepers but they...hmm, they’re kind of like.. uh, they’re teachers of the young and perpetrators of our history...”

Without realizing he was doing it or really meaning to let on that he’d been paying any real sort of attention to the conversation clearly not meant for himself, Dorian spoke up, “Ah, a bit like a secretary then?”

Eight or so pairs of eyes swung over in his direction, making it evident that they had not been expecting him to be listening. Rather uncomfortable, that, but never let it be said that Dorian Pavus couldn’t walk into an ongoing conversation unnaturally. He put on his best charming smile, almost exclusively for the Inquisitor's sake.

“A Secretary?” Oh that was almost too adorable for one man, the sheer innocence behind such a question, and Dorian had to stop himself from giggling like a schoolgirl.

Instead, he took himself a solid drink from his cup before responding, “A paper pusher, someone who keeps records and takes notes during meetings to share later at other meetings. Less an information gatherer and more an information organizer.”

“You mean like Krem?”

“Oy, fuck off Skinner.”

Beside him, Bull grunted, “Fucking Vints and their need to have complicated explanations for everything. A Secretary is a job. The kid following Josephine around all day with papers for her to sign or to look at or I don’t know, eat? Them. Got the impression from Dalish a Harhen is more like an Avaar Skald.”

Now it was his turn to be impressed, turning to look at The Iron Bull with blinking wonderment. A Qunari who’d interacted with Avaar. He reigned in quickly, though likely not quick enough for the actual Ben Hassrath sitting at the table with them. As was evident by the smirk Bull wasn’t at all hiding.

“Fenedhis, Dalish, what have you been telling them about us? I mean, I guess. Skald’s are like religious figures though and Harhen are just kind of like...Old people?”

Beside the Chocoquisitor, Dalish was giggling up a storm into her cup. Whatever she’d told the Chargers about her former clan was apparently bullshit and also incredibly funny. The Lord Harald was also snickering now, as if the sheer idea that someone would put so much weight into the title they were trying to explain was ridiculous at best.

Even Skinner was grinning, although from what he’d gleaned over the course of the last few weeks was that she was from some Orlesian city, pointedly not a ‘wild elf’ as it were. The way she played with the dagger in her hand implied differently, for different reasons.

Iron Bull was frowning, the whole thing appearing to take far longer for the Qunari to gasp then was probably accurate when he finally spoke, “Dalish,” a overlarge grin spreading across the grey man’s face, “were you fucking with me alll this time? And you, Boss?”

And with that, all three of the elves at the table lost their collective shits, giggling madly in a pile of spilled drinks, forgotten cards, and long limbs.

He himself was quite impressed by the whole thing. Likely without ever discussing it between them, they’d coordinated quite the prank. After a few more moments of drunken giggles from the elf pile, the Inquisitor managed to reign himself in.

It really was that moment that Dorian, looking back, had fallen head first into the official deep end of adoration for the man. Surrounded by people and not worshipers, drunk as a skunk and cackling away. It took him quite by surprise, the sheer beauty that he’d only hinted at noticing spreading across the man's face and lighting up those eyes. Those eyes he’d until now only seen as cold, hard, determined.

Filled with joy, those eyes were deep pools of molten gold, warm and inviting. Days from now the image front and center would warm his bones as he drifted off to sleep in some freezing backwater swamp in nowhere Ferelden.

In the moment, however, he managed, quite proudly, to pull his eyes away from the warm and altogether too inviting Inquisitor to focus upon the rest of the conversation.

Skinner was patting The Iron Bull on the shoulder, “S’not like in Alienages, Bull.”

The Iron Bull, for all his ability to appear quite terrifying to the average onlooker, was sulking like a small child being comforted by a mother. A sight, to be sure, and knowing him all an act to make those in the room more comfortable. Never trust a Qunari, let alone one that openly admits to being Ben Hassrath. 

The Inquisitor, having now long abandoned any attempt to return to the card game they’d been playing, stretched across the table to pat Bull’s hand, “Sorry, it was too good an opportunity to pass up. Dalish filled me in days ago that she’d been bullshiting most of you Shems about our culture for a while now. No, Hahren is just a fancy word for Elder for us. Mostly they work with the children while our hunters are out and about.”

“You were a hunter right?” Grim spoke up, probably for the first time since Dorian had been a part of the Inquisition. Not that he spent an inordinate amount of time hanging out with the Chargers’ leadership. He had spent that time in the Tavern though. When one is dead set on drinking oneself into a stupor, it’s always wise to assess the safety of the tavern one plans to pass out in.

“Still am, technically. Though all members of a clan are technically hunters by necessity, even our First and Second.”

Dalish was nodding along with The Inquisitor’s words, “We’re all taught to use bows, the shit ones are given swords and shields.”

“Even you mages?” Rocky asked.

“Mages? Dalish don’t have Mages.”

“You carry a Staff, Dalish.” Krem replied, pointing quite literally at the stave leaning against the wall behind them.

“It’s a bow.”

“S’got a glowing crystal at the top”

The Inquisitor spoke up before Dalish could respond, “It’s for aiming.”

“Old Elvhen trick” Dalish continued.

Dorian couldn’t have stopped himself if he tried, “Inquisitor, your bow doesn’t have a glowing crystal on it.”

He laughed, a sound that shook Dorian’s very essence in how incredibly wonderful and rare it was, “I’m not shit at aiming.” Eyebrows were waggled. The whole thing was supremely pleasant, more so when he continued, “and please.. Dorian? Call me Luc.”

Venhedis, but this man was going to be the death of him. He needed to reply, and quickly, with as smooth a line as the one delivered to him on the gilded platter that was the Inquisitor's beautifully warm smile. “Ah well, I will call you Luc if you remember this evening tomorrow, Inquisitor.”

There, sufficiently smooth, if he did say so himself.

“And on that note,” He waved a gesture towards the barmaid, a busty redheaded lass of no more then 16 or 17 years if he had to guess, lurking on the corner of their little gathering, possibly in hopes of snaring the attentions of the chocolatey Herald of the Bride of the Maker. Hoping for a chance to touch greatness and all that.

“Young lady, another round of whatever it is everyone has been drinking. On my tab, if you would. No point in having all this evil Magister money if I can’t use it to show our Lord Inquisitor what a good Hangover feels like, after all.”

The poor girl, having been addressed by An Evil Magister no doubt, stumbled over herself to curtsy and scramble away as fast as humanly possible. Typical for the majority of Skyhold's denizens and not particularly bothersome, on the usual. If it bothered him now, it was likely only because of how much he’d already had to drink.

He absolutely wasn’t going to allow anyone to know it bothered him, in any event. So he put that charming smile of his and turned his attention back toward the table, “Shall we continue the card game? For shots this time, instead of silver?”

The Iron Bull and at least two of the other Chargers, likely the Fereldan man and the quiet one, cheered at the idea. “So long as you’re paying, Vint, I’m game.”

* * *

Angry. It was really the only emotion he could allow himself to feel. Anger was safer than the crushing weight of anything more complicated. Anger kept him safe. Kept him alive when nothing else would. 

They had called for his death. Hoped for it. Prayed to their nonexistent shemelen god that he would die to save them. When he hadn’t, they cheered for him instead, but only to his face. They were still hoping and praying that he would die. 

Of course they wanted him to die. Why wouldn’t the humans want him to die when he had survived when their precious big hat had died? He wasn’t quite sure who had started calling him the Herald of Andraste. 

A joke, likely. Reminiscent of how he was treated by the clan. Da’len even when he was a man grown. Only Master Zoriah had ever treated him with less than kid gloves. They had never wanted him. An extra child with no family. Useless even when proven. Garbage. 

Sent off to die. They wanted him to die. All of them wanted him to die. He would rather burn and set the world ablaze with his anger then give one inch of comfort. Would rather they died, and if he had to, he’d take them all with him.

Stupid, reckless shems doing stupid reckless shem things and placing all the blame and hope and… the future of everything upon his shoulders as if he were some sort of hero.

He wasn’t. He was hardly more than a decent hunter. Good tracking skills, solid bow and dagger work. Delicate fingers for fletching arrows and crafting protective leathers. Bit faster then most of his clan and could take a hit or two. But those were acquired skills. Not gifts from the Shemlen’s Maker. 

They were hardly even considered gifts from his own gods! Void, the only thing The Creators and The Maker had in common was that they were all Gone. Or at least that’s what all the Shemlen around him kept insisting. 

His skills were his. Hard won after years and years, all 22 of them that he’d spent honing them out of frustration. He’d begun training when he was 8 years old. When he’d found his cousin crying in the bushes because he’d accidentally set their shared bed on fire.

He had never really been sure if it had been out of a need to protect Jase or to show him up. Often Jase would joke that he was as much a mage as he, that his dagger work flowed like water, and his arrows blazed through the sky like fire. It was meant well, but It only ever just made him angry.

Luc’s mother had been a mage. Or so he had been told his whole life. He couldn’t remember. Not either of his parents or any of the stories anyone ever told of them. They always felt like fairy stories made up to entertain a child, and nothing real that had ever existed before.

According to Keeper Deshanna and Master Zoriah, both of his parents had been killed by humans when he was very young. He had no choice but to trust in their words, even if the nagging feeling and haunting dreams told him otherwise.

He’d spoken with his cousin a few times about it, who’d stopped taking him seriously about it after they’d exhausted every avenue open to them. Years ago, now. Haunting dreams of being lost, alone, afraid? Waking up in an old ruin? Voices, screams, tears…

And Anger, always the anger. Always the swelling, burning need, to destroy because he had been, because _it_ had been, whatever _it_ was. Because he’d be left alone. Alone. Alone. Always alone. Why? Always alone. Anger anger anger anger..

Red red red red hot anger. Swallowing him whole. Enveloping, invoking, and raging to be let in. Let in? Yes, let in. Anger. Raging, burning, echoing, destroying... at the world and the shems and... beside him an echo of a laugh.

He woke with a start.

Wherever he had been before he woke up, it wasn’t here. 

Here was Skyhold. Here, his quarters. His quarters that were, in fact, far far far far too big. Nearly cavernous in comparison to the close quarters encampments he was used to living in. Far too big and too empty. Almost suffocatingly so. 

Here, where he was curled up in a ball in the middle of a pile of furs he’d managed to convince Josephine was in fact a perfectly acceptable bed. It had taken him nearly three weeks to convince her to give the overstuffed feather filled Orlesian bed to anyone else instead.

Somewhere, deep in the very depths of his mind, he was relieved to open his eyes in the very very too big for him and probably anyone else for that matter bedroom. For exactly four heartbeats.

It took the entire span of those four heartbeats before the headache throbbed through every inch of his form. A groan tore through him, only causing him to wince at the sound. Several waves of nausea slammed into him, and it took every ounce of his willpower not to revisit whatever he’d been drinking the night before.

He was pretty sure he had no idea how he had managed to get back to his room. Nor did he really want to think about it. The last thing he remembered from the night before was clinking glasses with the Chargers and draining the entirety of a cup full of ale.

 _Fenedhis lasa_. His head pounded and it was all he could do to not to die or spontaneously explode right there in the middle of his rat mountain. Which Sera had lovingly called it when she’d seen it.

It had been so nice, or at least he thought it probably was, to be able to sit and laugh and talk with Dalish and Skinner and not feel so completely like an outsider. Sera was fine, better even because at least she understood the burning anger and layers upon layers of hatred he had to mask on the daily.

It wasn’t the same though because Sara had another layer of hatred he could understand but not touch. He would be the wrong person to try, and so he didn’t. Choosing instead to agree to disagree mentally and verbally just agreeing whenever she began her rants about how Elfy Elves could be.

He believed in the Creators. He had to. He had to because if he didn’t then he may as well lose whatever connection he might have had left to his clan. Not that being a part of his clan hadn’t constantly felt like suffocation while he was there. Never quite good enough. Not from the Keeper or from Jase. Not even Master Zoriah. But the rest of the clan? The Hahren, the other hunters, the other families? Always guilt, always shame. An edge to their kind words that rung full of distrust.

He assumed all families were like that, though. Judging in order to push you to survive and thrive in a world unkind to your own so completely that your options outside of the clans were slavery, or starvation.

He missed them so much at times that it nearly broke him. Missed them all like caged birds missed the sky. 

Thinking about it only made him angry, and angry wasn’t something he was completely up to feeling right at that particular moment. He didn’t want to feel sad either. He wanted his headache to go away. Wanted the spinning in his guts to stop. Wanted to enjoy that he, at the very least for one night, had found some joy. Even if he was paying for it today.

Not that he could remember much of it and honestly now he was kicking himself. Or would kick himself if kicking himself wouldn’t mean getting up and experiencing what it felt like to be a living person with this raging headache.

No, better to stay curled up and listen to the S ~~hems~~ Advisors complain about his absence tomorrow. Or, he hoped. Instead, when he opened one golden eyeball to determine if the level of sunshine in his bedroom was worth the suffering of having both eyes open, he was met with a face full of Cole.

“It hurts.”

“Hello Cole,” he managed to croak out before pulling at the furs covering him in an attempt to bury himself completely within them.

“It hurts, but it’s a good hurt because it was fun.”

He mumbled an agreement grumpily, not really being capable of more. What little he remembered of the night had been fun. There had been a drinking contest… something about his name?

Creators…

“It’s alright, he doesn’t remember either. But he wanted you to, because he wanted to call you by your name instead of your title.”

A groan that had nothing to do with his hangover and everything to do with the new and improved headache that was shaped like Cole escaped him. He counted to five. Then he counted to ten and took a deep breath, ever thankful that there was now officially a small mountain of blankets piled on top of him so Cole couldn’t see the blush spreading to the very tips of his tanned ears.

Then, he screwed up enough energy to ask the question. The question he didn’t even have to ask because before he could open his mouth, the Cole shaped headache was taking again.

“He thinks your eyes are pretty and wonders how far down your Vallaslin goes. The Iron Bull will tell you what happened if you ask him.”

It was too much. He was absolutely sure he absolutely couldn’t ask Bull. Although he knew it was probably Bull who carried him back to his quarters when it was dark and quiet enough not to alert any visiting dignitaries of the level of blackout drunkenness he quite obviously was.

If The Iron Bull was good at anything, it was understanding discretion was the key to surviving the wrath of one very tiny Antivan diplomat. Sister Lilianna might have been the actual death incarnate, a regular Falon’din in human form, but Josiphine was far more terrifying. No one wanted to find out what it would look like to really piss her off.

Discretion on how he got into his own bed aside, the very idea of asking the man what blackout drunk Lucidity looked like or what he’d said while in the throes of said blackout was too much, beyond embarrassment, and if he could curl up inside himself and simply die right then and there in his own bed…

He’d prefer it.

So he tried. Not dying. Dying was painful and not on the agenda. He tried to curl up tighter beneath the rat mountain. It only led to the Cole shaped headache sitting on top of him to snicker and say, “It’s good that you’re thinking of it as your own bed finally. Ask. He wants to help.”

Then, as if it were never there at all, the weight holding him under all those blankets disappeared. As did the headache, after a few more moments.


	2. Like Fresh Air On a Spring Day

The arrow sliced through the air as if it were on a mission, slamming into the shoulder of the target dummy. A curse escaped his lips and he relaxed his stance. He wasn’t all together sure if it was because he was angry or if his craftsmanship had suffered lately. There had been a waver in the shaft as it had flown, missing it’s mark completely. Halfway to the dummy he decided it couldn’t be because he was angry.

He wasn’t sure there had been a time when he wasn’t angry.

First, he had been furious that he had lost his memory. That none of the shemlen keeping him in chains would believe him. When being angry about not being able to remember proved too difficult to sustain, he let it go. Besides, it had been hard not laughing about it days later when Varric had gone out of his way to get him shitfaced and help him make up fantastical tales about it.

Then, he decided one night that he ought to be angry at his clan for leaving him for dead. That had been unworthy of him. It hadn’t taken him over long to get over it. It would have been their own deaths had any of the hunter contingent hadn’t followed orders to protect their First. It would have made him feel less alone, but they had done their jobs.

His cousin was safe, the hunters were safe. According to Lilianna they were camped just east of Wycome. It had been good news, as Wycome was one of the few Marcher cities they could comfortably get close to without too much worry. The markets were typically more open to trade.

So he was no longer angry with his clan. Instead, he had shifted his anger towards the ridiculous humans that had decided he was some kind of chosen prophet of their god. He had a healthy fear of Sister Lilianna and liked Cassandra well enough all things considered, but his initial response to both Commander Cullen and Lady Josephine had been polite but less than kindly.

Leadership aside? The idiot humans blithering around the camp, half biting their tongues so they wouldn’t let slip the near-automatic insults humans tended to sling in the direction of any elf, let alone a wild elf, sent every hair on the back of his neck on edge.

And that had been another thing. His hair. The loss of years of growth and the mementos worn through it. His braids and beads and feathers.. All gone. Solas had explained early on that when they’d found him it had looked as if he himself had cut much of it away. It had taken him months to stop holding the Shems accountable for the loss of his braids. 

He still wasn’t entirely convinced, but he had lessened his anger at the common folk around Haven by the time he’d gone to the Hinterlands and spoke with Mother Giselle. Out of all the chantry humans, she at least seemed genuine in her concern. Still didn’t excuse the occasional tongue slips by the quartermaster or the irritation at how the few nobles and other chantry folk who’d come to visit looked at him.

As he reached out to pull free the arrow lodged fletch deep into the target dummy, he grimaced. He’d eventually let go of each one of the things that had made him angry, and likely would have settled rather comfortably in his position as ‘Elf pretending to be some human’s savior’ had Corypheus not appeared.

Corypheus had caused his anger to shift, directed only one way. The.. thing, man, darkspawn, was easy to hate and deserved it for what he’d done to Haven. For what he’d seen at Thereinfall. Not that he’d had any particular love for Templars when he’d gone. No, the loss of the rebel mages had less to do with any distaste for mages and more to do with bad timing.

They’d.. He’d.. left to go rescue a contingent of scouts in the Ferelden lowland swamps, and when they’d come up for air they had been informed that Josephine had worked her magic with both orlesian and ferelden noble houses to have a party meet them there. The Hinterlands had been left in good care with the inquisition army assisting in cleanup and rebuilding.

Redcliff had been in the opposite direction, and safe enough to leave until they were heading back. It had been a logistics choice. One that had cost them nearly every circle trained mage left in Southern Thedas.

He let that thought roll over in his mind, again and again as he examined the arrow he’s roughly pulled from the straw dummy. He had outright refused to allow the Shemelen quartermaster supply him with arrows. The new quartermaster wasn’t any more competent in finding a fletcher among humans who could make them with the precision he himself could. He made them himself.

Yet even as he searched for the flaws that had caused the waver in the shaft, the thought continued to echo, rattling into the very marrow of his bones.

The mages of Southern Thedas had joined Corypheus out of desperation because he’d chosen not to take Grand Enchanter Fiona’s warning to heart. The mages of Southern Thedas had joined Corypheus out of desperation because **he’d chosen** not to take Grand Enchanter Fiona’s warning to heart. The mages of Southern Thedas had joined Corypheus out of desperation because **_he’d chosen not to_ ** take Grand Enchanter Fiona’s warning to heart. The mages of Southern…

“If you keep that up you’re bound to spontaneously combust, lethallin.”

Luc started, dropping into a low attack stance and flipping the arrow to point it as if it were a sword at whomever had spoken. A reflex, a bad one he needed to remember to break eventually.

The voice chuckled, or rather, Solas did. “I see you’re still not completely comfortable here yet either. Good. I doubt the humans would let you come to harm but it’s always wise to be cautious. Relax Inquisitor, I mean you no bodily harm.”

Luc cringed and stood up awkwardly, “You startled me, that’s all,” He kept his tone light despite the stutter in his hand. He hadn’t expected anyone, which would have been foolish on any given day in the middle of skyhold’s courtyard. He took a deep breath, “Aneth ara, Solas. Shems being kind? I don’t have to kill anyone today, do I?”

Solas chuckled, extending his hand to take the arrow from him, “No, not to day I think. Are you alright? You seem.. well, frustrated at a glance.”

Luc passed the arrow over, giving the elvhen mage a sheepish smile. Another small favor from the Creators. Despite the inquisition being a largely human organization, he was grateful for the few friendly elvhen faces. Dalish, Sara, Solas. He wished far fewer of the kitchen staff were elvhen but understood the need to eat and thus had insisted they be paid far better than was typical for staffing roles.

“I’m always frustrated, Solas. There’s a big fucking Darkspawn trying to break the world. Plus Sera filled half of Cullen’s target dummies full of bees. Not really sure how, but I’m not sure I want the answer either so I’m not going to ask.” He let himself smile, involuntarily reaching to finger one of the braids that were no longer present. The smile fell, replaced with irritation.

“You can grow your hair back out, lethallin. No one will stop you I’m sure,” Solas chuckled, patting him on the back gently, “Come walk with me a bit? It’s surprisingly warm today and I could stand a bit of fresh air.”

Luc muttered grouchily. Joking aside he likely couldn’t grow his hair out, not like it used to be at least. Josephine would kill him. He could hear it now, “I can just hear it now, Solas. ‘What will the nobles think, my lord, if you keep your hair that way?’ and ‘Someone of your status can’t possibly be seen wearing heathen braids, your grace!’ Ugh.”

He gestured towards the battlements even as Solas chuckled at his poor impression of Josephine, “Yes I suspect the Lady Ambassador would disapprove but that is the best part of being in charge, don’t you agree?”

Luc paused his steps momentarily, “What’s that?”

Solas smiled, “You don’t have to listen.”

It was Luc's turn to snicker, “Fair enough, I suppose. Though if I do that too often I worry they’d just figure out how to cut my hand off and get rid of the rest of me.”

Solas chuckled, moving once they’d reached the top of the stairs to allow Luc to pass up onto the battlements, “If you’d made that joke in Haven I’d have taken you more seriously then now. Now It’s more likely that they’ll just frown and let you do what you want.”

“You have more faith in the humans than I do? That’s only mildly shocking, to be honest.” Luc grinned and let himself lean against the stone wall. He turned his face towards the sky and took a deep breath. Chilly, but not the frigid cold of the night he’d spent trekking alone through the mountains.

“You trust them more than you’d like to believe.”

Luc shrugged, “I trust individual humans. Like Cassandra, or..”

“Dorian?” Solas’s smile had just the barest hint of teasing beneath it.

Luc felt himself go rigid against the stone, turning his gaze away from Solas, “Should I not trust Dorian?” The tips of his ear burned and he silently cursed Cole who absolutely was the one who told. Had to be.

Solas only continued to smile, “Well he is a Tevinter Mage. Worse than most of the rest of the humans in Skyhold combined, is he not?”

Luc was absolutely positively sure he was in no way ready to entertain the current conversation. He knew full well that it would probably lead to discussing something Cole muttered to Solas. Of course, Solas understood exactly the meaning behind Cole’s words because of course he understood it. Solas always understood Cole. Void, Solas usually understood what Luc was projecting, especially when he wasn’t speaking. Which was incredibly irritating on the best of days.

“Fenedhis”

Solas let himself really laugh, clapping a hand on Luc’s shoulder, “It’s quite alright, Lucidity. I’m only teasing. There’s nothing wrong with allowing yourself to trust. Cole and I are here if you need support, but the humans here are..”

A thoughtful pause, one long enough that it caused Luc to turn and look to Solas. Really look for the first time since reaching their intended destination. The expressions passing over his face was a journey, to say the least. After a moment or two more he spoke up again, “They are worthy of respect, even the Tevinter.”

“Well, that’s lofty praise coming from you, Solas. Did Cassandra actually apologize for threatening to kill you?” Luc grinned playfully towards Solas, who chuckled again.

“No, she’s not the type to apologize, you know that well enough yourself. I’m heading back inside. An Elvhen expert’s work is never done, it seems.” Solas pushed himself off the side of the stone battlements and smiled.

“You’re welcome,” Luc responded cheerfully. Every ‘Elvhen’ artifact they found was now directly handed to Solas for inspection. His own suggestion, if for no other reason then to keep as many shemlen hands off their shared history as possible. “Maybe next time the inquisition scouts come across a ruin full of our language in written form it won't take us a week to correctly re decipher what it took an army of shemelen scholars a month to decipher incorrectly.”

Solas clapped him on the shoulder again, “Don’t forget, Inquisitor Lavellan, you have dance practice in an hour.”

“Aaand I suddenly hate you, thanks.”

Solas laughed, shaking his head as he walked away, “Your arrow fletching needs work, lethallin!” and tossed the arrow gently in Luc’s direction.

Luc caught it, feeling better then he had in days. He spun the arrow between his fingertips, picking up the slight weight displacement within the arrows core, almost completely due to him having fletched it too quickly. Solas was right.

He chuckled and shook his head. He had an hour to burn, apparently. Maybe he’d go see if the Library had any books on arrows.

**Author's Note:**

> It is here and on paper and out of my head. It's been brewing for a while and keeping me from updating my other stories so OUT IT GOES, into the wild. We'll see how many chapters I can push out in the next little bit.
> 
> Heads up, there will likely be zero smutty goodness here, beyond references to or a fade to black. Mostly because my adhd addled brain doesn't do well with second hand embarrassment and trying to write such things as a grown ass adult is almost impossible for me to manage with out wanting to set the whole thing on fire. If anyone wants to volunteer to write some for this piece, they're more then welcome to send me a message via tumblr (link at the bottom). 
> 
> Anyway.. what if the Inquisitor wasn't your typical Dalish elf? What if he was a REAL BOY, honest Seeker I swear!!!!11oneone...
> 
> (Here's a link- https://roseykins.tumblr.com/)


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